Black Friday
by MidnightBlue88
Summary: The week after detention is hard for everyone, but for Andy and Bender it's hell. New friends and new enemies threaten to become more than they can handle, and both are hurtling towards an ending that will change one life forever. AndyAllison, JohnClaire.
1. Prologue: Death

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Breakfast Club.  
**Genres: **Mystery/Suspense/Tragedy/Romance/Angst/Supernatural  
**Rating: **T for violence and language.  
**A/N: **Thank you so much to Lori, who told me what worked and what would work better. I am forever in your debt. Well, maybe not forever, but at least for the next couple of weeks, or until I don't feel like it anymore. I also have to mention Iron & Wine, author of "The Trapeze Swinger", since I had the idea for this story while listening to that song.

**

* * *

**

Prologue: Death

* * *

_Friday, March 30, 1984

* * *

_

I'm pretty sure that this wasn't supposed to happen. I made a big mistake, and what was meant for someone else was given to me instead. It shouldn't have happened. I wish it hadn't.

Then again, I guess everyone says that when they die.

I've been having a hard time with a lot of things since it happened, but mostly I've had a hard time remembering. How it happened, who was there, why they did it. I keep trying to remember, but everything is slipping away. All those microscopic details, those tiny moments that meant so little at the time, but now hold the key to the truth. They're slipping away, one piece at a time, and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it.

But maybe if I start at the beginning, maybe then I can put the pieces back together. Maybe I can figure out what happened on Friday afternoon in the parking lot, when everything spun out of control and the world went black. Maybe I can figure out what happened before it happens again, this time to one of the others. To her.

And I'll have to do it quick, because time is running out.

**

* * *

A/N:** I will have chapter one posted really soon. 


	2. Chapter One: Grey Sunday

**A/N: **I appreciate everyone who has reviewed so far. Thank you for reading.

* * *

Send not to know  
For whom the bell tolls,  
It tolls for thee.

-John Donne

* * *

**Chapter One: Grey Sunday**

**

* * *

**

_Sunday, March 25, 1984_

_

* * *

_

Andy Clark hated the rain.

He hated it mostly because it made him tired and depressed, but when he was younger, he hated it because rain meant that his games would be cancelled. Of course, that was back when he was seven years old and he played Little League baseball and football and he actually looked forward to the competition. Back when he was too naïve to realize that getting a hit or scoring a touchdown was just making things worse, giving his father another reason to push him. He knew different now, but he kind of missed those days, when ignorance was bliss.

Andy picked up his ham and cheese sandwich and took another bite. Outside, a roll of thunder sent off a car alarm somewhere down the street. Probably the one on Mr. Jones's Mercedes, which was really sensitive and went off all the time, so often that Andy was desensitized to the sound by then. He looked outside to see if he was right, but he couldn't see past the torrent of rain on the other side of the window. So, he just stared at the pane of glass, grey and cloudy, and ate his sandwich.

After a few minutes, his thoughts turned towards Allison. He'd been thinking about her a lot since the previous afternoon when they'd parted ways after detention. He wouldn't call it obsessing really, just thinking. He kept wondering where she was and what she was doing, whether she was eating lunch like he was and what she was eating if she was. Probably not a ham and cheese sandwich like his, but maybe another kind of sandwich, with gummy bears and horseradish sauce or something. Andy imagined her standing at her kitchen counter, taking a huge bite from a sandwich like that, and he smiled.

"What are you thinking about?"

Andy looked up to see that his sixteen-year-old brother Jeff was watching him from the other side of the kitchen table. Jeff's mouth was full of ham and cheese sandwich, and he had a spot of mustard on the corner of his mouth.

"Nothing," Andy responded, trying to stop smiling. "I just wish it wasn't raining."

Jeff nodded emphatically. "Yeah, me, too. I hate the rain."

Andy nodded and took another bite of his sandwich. Outside, the rain slowed down briefly, and Andy could finally see past the curtain of water coating the window. Across the street, Mr. Jones was standing next to his car, trying to get his car alarm to turn off. His pants were soaked to the knee, and he didn't look too happy about having to be outside. The streets were already flooded with about three inches of rainwater.

"Maybe it'll clear up soon and we can play basketball or something," said Jeff.

"I doubt it," Andy responded, still looking out the window, watching Mr. Jones curse at his car. He glanced back over at Jeff, who looked disappointed. "But maybe," Andy said quickly. "I would be up for a game."

Jeff smiled and went back to his sandwich.

A few minutes later, the phone rang. Andy put down his sandwich and jumped up to answer it. "Hello?"

"Andy?"

Andy frowned. "Oh, hey, man."

Mark let out a frustrated breath. "Where the hell were you last night? I called three times."

Andy sighed. "I was tired, and I didn't feel like going." It was the truth, even if it wasn't the whole truth.

Mark didn't say anything for a few seconds. "You could have at least called to let me know. My mom is still using my car, so I ended up having to go with Steve, and you know how much I hate driving with him."

Andy cringed. Steve was one of the wrestlers, and one of the most obnoxious people Andy had ever met. He showed up at every party thrown by anyone worth mentioning, and he got smashed at just about every one of them. Mark and Andy tried to avoid hanging out with him if they could, even though it was kind of hard since the wrestling team spent so much time together, even outside of school and practice. In fact, Mark and Andy tried to avoid hanging out with most of their fellow wrestlers, with a couple of exceptions, since most of them seemed to be on their way to becoming drug addicts or alcoholics and didn't have time for much else besides perfecting their craft. Andy wasn't a heavy drinker, and Mark didn't drink at all, so they didn't have much in common with the other guys. The two of them kept to themselves mostly, making them the bunt of numerous jokes questioning their sexuality, which Andy did not find amusing at all. He and Mark ate lunch with some of the guys from the basketball team, a much tamer group, along with some guys they'd known since elementary and middle school.

"Sorry," said Andy, and he meant it. "Did he drive you home?"

Mark sighed. "No, Sarah gave me a ride home."

Andy grinned. "Oh, really? How did that go?"

"It didn't," Mark said bluntly. "She's still dating that college guy."

"Oh." Andy knew that Mark had been in love with Sarah Forester ever since they were in diapers and their mothers would take them to the playground so that they could eat sand together and push one another off of the merry-go-round. Sarah cared about Mark, but only as a friend, and even though Andy made fun of him about it nearly everyday, Mark refused to give up the ghost and date someone else. Andy didn't know if that was romantic or retarded, especially since he was pretty sure that Mark could get some action if he put a little effort into it and stopped pining.

"Whatever," said Mark, signaling that he didn't want to talk about it anymore, as usual. "How was detention yesterday?"

Immediately, Andy's stomach tightened up. It felt so odd to have someone mention it when they weren't there and weren't part of it. In fact, it felt wrong, intrusive almost. "Detention was fine," Andy said hesitantly.

Mark paused. "Did something happen?"

"No, why?"

"I don't know. You just sound weird. I thought maybe something bad happened."

"Nope," Andy answered. He didn't really know why he was lying about it. He wasn't ashamed of anything, or at least he didn't think he was. It was just that part of him felt like what happened wasn't anyone else's business and they wouldn't understand anyway, even if he did tell them. He recognized immediately what a childish thought that was, but he couldn't push the feeling away.

"Okay," Mark said uncertainly. "Well, what are you doing today? I was thinking that if the rain let up we could grab something for dinner, maybe go over to that new burger place off the boulevard. Jonah said it was pretty good."

Andy hesitated, though he wasn't exactly sure why. He wasn't really in the mood to be social, and he didn't know if that was because of the rain or detention or something else entirely. Maybe a little bit of everything.

"I've actually got a lot of homework to do," he lied. "I think it would be best if I stayed home today."

Mark was quiet for a few seconds, and Andy wondered if he'd hung up on him. Then Mark said, "Okay. I guess I'll see you tomorrow then." His tone was cautious, like he wanted to say something else, but had decided not to.

"Yeah, definitely," said Andy, trying to sound like he was excited about it. "Later."

When Andy hung up the phone, he turned to see that Jeff was watching him. "Was that Mark?" he asked.

Andy nodded and took his seat at the table again. "Yeah."

"Were you supposed to go somewhere with him?" Jeff asked.

Andy nodded. "A party. Last night."  
"Why didn't you go?"

"Because I didn't feel like it," Andy answered, shooting him a playful glare. "What is this, twenty questions?"

Jeff grinned, and a piece of blonde hair, a little bit longer and lighter than Andy's own, fell into his eye. "Maybe. Why didn't you feel like going? Were you sick?"

Andy watched him closely for a moment, trying to decide how much to tell him. He talked with Jeff about a lot of things going on in his life, but the most important things he kept to himself. And this was definitely important. Detention, the Breakfast Club, Allison. He felt dumb thinking it, but part of him felt like this was a new beginning, an opportunity to make some changes in his life that he'd been needing to make for a long time. He could feel that he was on the verge of something big, and even though it wasn't quite there yet, he knew it was coming.

"Well?" Jeff asked.

Andy sighed. "I just didn't feel like going. It's not a big deal."

"What happened in detention yesterday?"

Andy glanced up, a little too quickly. "Nothing, why?"

Jeff shrugged. "You mentioned it on the phone. It sounded like you didn't want to talk about it."

Either his brother was really observant, or Andy was really bad at keeping his emotions under wraps. "I don't mind talking about it," he told his brother.

"Okay. So, what happened?"

Andy sighed, realizing that he'd been trapped. "Nothing," he said again, this time more resigned. "I just met some people, that's all. Some…new friends, I guess."

"New friends?" Jeff echoed skeptically. "In detention?"

Immediately, Andy knew what Jeff was thinking. About twelve months previous, his younger brother fell in with a bunch of lowlifes at school and got into a bunch of trouble. At first, it was skipping school and climbing back through his window at night smelling like cigarettes or weed. He probably did other stuff, too, but no one knew exactly what. Then, a few months after that started, Jeff and a friend got arrested for stealing a sports car from a parking garage, taking it for a joyride, and brutally assaulting the officer that tried to arrest them. Jeff got off pretty light since it was his first offense and he hadn't been the one behind the wheel. He spent about six months in a youth correctional facility before he was allowed back in school. That was only three months ago, just before Christmas, and in some ways the family was still adjusting. Especially their father.

"I don't know," Andy said, trying to sound casual. "I guess."

Jeff paused thoughtfully. "Do you have lots of homework tonight?"

"No."

Jeff smirked. "But you just told Mark you did. Were you lying?"

Andy glared at him. "If I'd known when you were born that you were going to be this annoying, I would have told Mom to give you up for adoption."

"Told me what?"

Andy and Jeff looked up to see that their mother had walked into the kitchen. She was wearing a pair of grey athletic shorts and a matching grey t-shirt that said 'Back off, I'm out of estrogen and I've got a gun." Her hair was pulled back with a clip, and she was covered in sweat, obviously from working out downstairs in the basement.

"Andy was just telling me that he wishes you'd given me up for adoption," Jeff offered cheerfully.

Mrs. Clark went to the fridge and grabbed a pitcher of water. "Some days, I wish I'd given you _both_ up for adoption."

Andy rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Mom."

"You're welcome." She wiped a lock of hair away from her damp forehead and reached up to grab a glass from the cabinet above her head. "Did you two already eat?"

"Yeah," Andy answered, standing up from the table. He took his and Jeff's empty plates and walked over to the sink to rinse them off.

Mrs. Clark took a few deep sips of water and set the glass back down on the marble grey countertop. "Did your father call?"

Andy shook his head. "No." His dad had left the night before to go fishing with a friend, and he wasn't due back until later that evening. The rain probably meant that he'd be stranded out there for a while longer than he'd anticipated.

Mrs. Clark took another sip of water and sighed. "He was supposed to help me move all those boxes out of the garage tonight…"

Andy, who could see where this was headed, tried to duck out of her way, but she was faster. She grabbed him by the sleeve of his grey hoodie and pulled him towards her. "…but maybe you two could help instead," she finished.

Andy sighed, but Jeff went so far as to groan out loud. "Mom!" he exclaimed. "It's Sunday. Didn't Jesus want us to rest?"

Andy stifled a giggle. His mother had been raised Catholic, and she still practiced her faith every week at church. Her husband wasn't particularly religious, so he didn't go with her very often, but Mrs. Clark made sure that both of her sons went to Mass every week, whether they liked it or not. Jeff hated it, but Andy didn't mind. He believed in God, and it made his mother happy that he went, so he didn't argue with her about it.

Mrs. Clark glanced over at her younger son, eyebrow arched in challenge. "Since when are you such an expert on Jesus?"

Jeff shrugged, smirking. "I've been reading my Bible a lot lately."

"Well," Mrs. Clark responded, pretending to be impressed. "In that case, you probably read the part about working hard and honoring your parents, didn't you?"

Jeff didn't even blink, just stared back at her, still smirking.

Andy stepped away from his mother and grabbed Jeff by the sleeve of his t-shirt. "Come on, let's just get it over with," he told him.

Jeff sighed. "But it's Sunday. It's God's day."

Mrs. Clark swatted Jeff with a towel as he passed. "Don't forget the big box in the far corner."

"We won't," Andy assured her.

"And when you come back in, use a towel to dry off before you sit down anywhere, will you?" she asked, leaning out into the doorway, hand against her hip. "Because if you ruin that new sofa, I'll kill you myself."

* * *

John Bender loved the rain.

Mostly he loved it because other people hated it and he figured that anything that made people that angry was at least worth appreciating. He really enjoyed watching people when it rained. There was a cigar shop a few blocks away from his house, right in the heart of downtown Shermer (though it seemed ridiculous to Bender that a town as small as Shermer even had a downtown). When it rained, he liked to go down to the shop, buy the nicest cigar he could afford, and smoke it outside under the bright red awning. There, protected from the weather, he would lean back and take long, slow drags while he watched everyone else battle the rain. Old ladies worried about their hairdos, men running with newspapers over their heads, little girls dodging mud puddles. He enjoyed watching them get frustrated and irritated, and a small part of him liked that their day was ruined by something they couldn't control.

On Sunday afternoon, Bender put on his dark grey trench coat and stepped out into the downpour. His boots protected his feet from the puddles, but he didn't even try to keep his head or clothing dry. By the time he reached the end of his street, his hair was soaked all the way down to his scalp and his coat was heavy with rainwater. He kept walking.

The inside of Joe's Cigar Shop was small and ugly, but it was clean, and Bender loved the way it smelled. Like tobacco, obviously, but deeper. Bender walked straight up to the counter and leaned over the glass to ring the bell.

"Don't get my countertop wet." An older man with greyish-brown hair stepped out of the back room and nudged Bender's hand away from the bell. "Back up."

Bender smirked and did as he was told. The man grabbed a roll of paper towels from under the counter and ripped off a sheet. This wasn't Joe. Bender didn't know who the hell Joe was, or if he ever even existed, because he'd never asked. Carlisle owned and ran the shop, and no one else worked there. He claimed that he didn't have any use for other employees, but Bender thought that really he just didn't want anyone else touching his cigars. Carlisle had a deep reverence for everything he sold, along with an almost uncanny knack for picking out the perfect cigar for a person's mood or situation. Wife just had a baby? A light Ecuadorian claro-wrapped cigar was a good choice. Just caught your wife fucking another guy? Better go with a dark Brazilian maduro.

"I keep these down here because of you, you know," Carlisle informed him, still wiping away at the countertop. "I knew you would come in today just to drip water on my floors and merchandise."

"At least it gives you an excuse to clean," Bender told him, fingering a bowl of lighters right beside the register.

Carlisle tossed the roll of paper towels below the counter. "What do you want today, John?"

"Got any Cubans?" Bender asked, grinning.

Carlisle glared at him. "If I did, I certainly wouldn't sell them to you."

"Fair enough," said Bender. "What do you have that's new?"

Carlisle turned to look at the wall of boxes behind the register. "Finally got the new CAO Gold Labels in. And the Brazilias." He reached up to tap a burgundy-colored box on the far right. "Rocky Patel Connecticuts. Been out of those for a while."

Bender skimmed the labels, letting his eyes travel up to the top shelf. That was where Carlisle kept the best cigars, the most expensive brands. For some reason, he was in the mood for something a bit classier. "What about those?"

"Which ones?" Carlisle asked, looking up to where John was pointing.

"The blue box. Gray something."

Carlisle shook his head. "Graycliff Presidentes. Way too expensive."

Immediately, Bender felt a surge of anger at Carlisle's presumption. "How much?" he demanded.

"Twelve bucks," said Carlisle.

Holy fuck! Twelve bucks for one cigar? He could buy a couple grams of weed for that price, and it'd last a lot longer. He'd probably enjoy it more, too. But the way Carlisle was looking at him, like he knew Bender was going to say, "No, never mind, give me the cheap one," told him that he couldn't back down.

"I'll take it," Bender said casually, pulling his wallet out of the pocket of his coat. Carlisle rolled his eyes, like he thought Bender was an idiot, but he took the box down anyway.

"I hope you appreciate what a fine cigar you've got here," he said, carefully removing one of the sticks from the box. "Sumatran wrapper, the fillers are meticulously blended, the veins are practically seamless--"

"Does it give blow jobs, too?" Bender interrupted, tossing a couple of bills onto the glass counter.

Carlisle just shook his head and started ringing it up.

Outside, Bender leaned back against the grey stone wall of the building, just under the bright red awning, and removed a book of matches from his boot. He struck the tip against the wall and lit the cigar. It smelled just about the same as every other cigar he'd ever smoked, and it tasted about the same, too, with subtle differences. It was a little smoother, a little sweeter. Bender enjoyed it, but it definitely wasn't worth twelve fucking dollars. He'd stick to the cheap ones from then on, his pride be damned.

On the other side of the street, people were rushing in and out of the drug store, trying to avoid the rain as best as they could. A woman was running out to her car, holding her jacket over her head as if that was going to keep her dry. Her two children, a girl and a boy, followed closely behind, trying to keep up. The girl, whose dark blonde hair was plastered to her face, looked miserable, but the boy didn't seem to be in any hurry to get out of the rain. He jumped off of the curb and landed in a deep puddle of grimy water, splashing water everywhere. His sister screamed at him for splattering her shirt with mud, and their mother yelled at him for getting his new shoes dirty, but the boy ignored them both and kicked the water, sending another splash of water in his sister's direction.

Bender smiled.

About halfway through the cigar, another car pulled up in front of the pharmacy and a young redheaded woman stepped out. Bender's heart skipped a beat, but it wasn't her, and he felt stupid for getting so excited about it in the first place. Still, he watched the redhead walk into the store, followed her with his eyes as she walked up to the counter and paid for her prescription. She was tall and slender, like Claire, but she was a little bit older, and her hair was darker and longer. She wasn't nearly as pretty. Bender watched her run back to her car, plastic bag held over her head, then pull out of the parking lot.

Bender flicked the ash off of the end of the cigar and breathed in deeply, filling his nostrils with the sent of rain and tobacco. He wondered if Claire's father smoked cigars. Probably. Didn't all rich guys do that? They ate their five course meals, and then they retired to the sitting room, where they drank brandy and smoked cigars and talked about business and politics. Bender wondered if Claire's father would be impressed that he was smoking such a nice cigar, or if he would even notice. He figured that Mr. Standish probably smoked cigars like his all the time, and he probably didn't even blink an eye when he laid down 150 bucks for a box. Bender looked down at the cigar in his hand and sighed, releasing a hazy breath into the cold, damp air.

"Bender!"

Bender looked up to see that his friend Ricky was jogging down the sidewalk towards him. Bender had known Ricky for a long time, probably forever. They lived down the street from one another, and sometimes when things got bad at home, Ricky would let him crash on his couch for a night or two. Bender didn't really have that many friends, and there wasn't anyone that he trusted explicitly, but he figured that Ricky came about as close as anyone was ever going to.

Ricky stopped running when he reached the dry space under the awning. His long-sleeved grey t-shirt was soaked all the way through, and his jeans were covered in mud up to the knee. He grabbed a fist of material from his t-shirt and started wringing it out.

"Hey, watch it," Bender warned him when flecks of dirty water splattered against his coat.

Ricky took a couple of deep breaths and pushed a lock of dark brown hair away from his face. "Sorry," he said breathlessly. "I just ran here all the way from my house."

"Just to see me?" Bender asked sarcastically. "I'm flattered."

Ricky sighed. "Actually, yeah. I need a favor."

A favor. Great. "What kind of favor?" Bender asked.

Ricky paused. "I don't ever ask you for anything, do I? I mean, when is the last time I--"

"Just spit it out," Bender said irritably.

Ricky sighed again. "I need to borrow some money."

Bender rolled his eyes. "I figured that much. What do you need?"

Pause. "Three hundred bucks."

Bender choked on a puff of smoke. "Three hundred bucks?" he asked incredulously.

Ricky didn't say anything, just stared back at him seriously, waiting.

Bender shook his head. "What the hell do you need three hundred bucks for? Is Susanna pregnant or something?"

Ricky's eyes flashed with anger at the mention of his girlfriend, but he kept his cool. "No," he said evenly. "Nothing like that."

"Then what is it?" Bender pressed.

Ricky took another deep breath. "I owe someone some money."

Bender eyed him carefully. "Who?" he asked, afraid that he already knew the answer.

Ricky clenched his jaw. "Frank Durbin."

Bender let out an angry, uneven breath. "You're such a fucking idiot," he told him, shaking his head. "Such a _fucking_ idiot."

"I couldn't help it, man!" Ricky shouted. "I needed it right away."

"Why didn't you ask me first, huh?" Bender yelled. "Why? I could have helped you. Why did you go to Frank, huh? He's not someone you want to get in deep with."

"I know he isn't," Ricky said. "Don't you think I know that?" He sighed. "I needed more than you could give me."

Bender narrowed his eyes. "How much did you need?"

Ricky closed his eyes and wiped his wet face with his hand. "A thousand dollars," he said quietly.

Bender felt his stomach drop. "Why did you need a thousand dollars?"

Ricky shook his head. "I can't tell you."

Bender scoffed. "You're asking me for three hundred dollars, and you can't even tell me what--"

"No," Ricky said firmly. "I can't."

Bender stared at him for a long moment, trying to decide what to say next. He heard something sizzle, and he looked down to see that a piece of ash had fallen from the tip of his cigar and had landed on the damp grey pavement at his feet. Bender chucked the small bit of cigar that was left into the street.

"I should have told you earlier," said Ricky.

"You're damn right you should have," Bender replied angrily.

Ricky swallowed deeply, but didn't say anything. Bender took a couple of shallow breaths, trying to collect his thoughts. Finally, he said, "Has he been letting you pay it along?"

Ricky nodded. "A hundred a month for eight months." He paused. "Last month I could only pay half, so he said I had to pay the rest this month." He let out a shaky breath, and Bender knew that he was scared. "I don't have any more money, man. Mr. Grunewald let me go last month, and I haven't been able to find another job. I don't--" He broke off, looking down at his shoes.

The two of them stood there for a for a long minute without saying anything. Bender looked out over the street in front of the store, at the pharmacy where he could see people picking up prescriptions and paying for them at the register. He watched those people run out to their minivans and Cadillacs, shaking the rain out of their hair, then pulling out of their parking space to go home. Bender closed his eyes. A couple of minutes passed.

"Nice day, isn't it?"

Bender's eyes flew open, and he saw Frank Durbin standing in front of him, chewing on a toothpick. His short, light brown hair was dry, but drops of water clung to his neatly-trimmed beard. He had one hand stuffed into the pocket of his dark green windbreaker.

No one said anything for a moment. Frank just stood there, calm as could be, and chewed on his toothpick. Ricky looked like he was about to pee in his pants.

"I can get you the money," Bender said finally.

Frank nodded. "I figured you could."

Bender swallowed. "When do you need it?"

Frank shrugged. "Technically, it's due Wednesday, but I imagine that's probably going to be a problem for you, so I can cut you a break." He paused. "How about Friday?"

As if he had a choice. How the fuck was he going to get three hundred dollars together by Friday? "Yeah, I can get it by Friday," he told Frank.

Frank offered Bender a bland smile. "Thanks, John. I really appreciate it." He glanced over at Ricky. "Good friend you've got here."

Ricky nodded stiffly.

Frank looked over at Bender. "It's hard to find someone loyal enough to help you out when you're in a jam. Loyal enough to put himself on the line."

Bender stared back silently.

Frank turned back to look at Ricky. "Don't let this one go. Good friends are hard to come by." With that, he flipped the hood of his jacket up over his head and stepped out into the rain again.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Ricky turned to Bender. "Fuck, man, I didn't know that was going to happen! I didn't know that--"

"It doesn't matter," Bender cut in. His hands were shaking so badly that he had to stuff them into his coat pockets so that Ricky wouldn't see them. "We'll get the money by Friday, alright?"

Ricky nodded, and Bender thought that he looked a little bit relieved. "Yeah, okay."

Bender nodded again. "Don't worry, we'll get it," he assured him.

_…Because if we don't, we're both dead._

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you for reading. Reviews are much appreciated. 


	3. Chapter Two: Red Monday

**A/N: **This chapter took about 18 million years to write, but I finally finished, so here it is. sigh I hope everyone enjoys it. Oh, and happy Thanksgiving!

**

* * *

**

Chapter Two: Red Monday

* * *

On Monday morning, Bender didn't wake up slowly, like he normally did. He didn't yawn or rub the sleep from his eyes or curse the sunlight peeking in through a gap in the curtains. Instead, he woke with a start, heart hammering, gasping for breath, eyes darting around the room like a scared animal. Someone had been chasing him. They'd followed him home, and they were hiding in his room, waiting for him. Waiting to take him.

But, no, they weren't. There wasn't anyone else in the room, unless you counted a couple of cockroaches, which Bender didn't. No, it was a dream, a really bad dream, and it was over. Bender reached down to pull the covers away from his chest, only to find that he'd kicked them off at some point during the night and that they were in a loose ball at the foot of his bed. The sheets were damp with sweat, and so was his body. Bender lay there for a moment catching his breathing, trying to get his heart rate under control.

He had to do something about Frank Durbin.

* * *

Andy pulled up to the stoplight at the corner of Sycamore and North Main, right behind a huge white Buick, and stifled a yawn. He'd gotten up early that morning for a light cardio workout, and he was already missing the extra sleep. It didn't help that he'd stayed up until midnight the night before trying to finish his Calculus homework, which he'd been putting off all weekend because he knew that it would take forever, which it had. As it was, he hadn't even finished all of the questions since he'd fallen asleep on Friday during Mr. Hall's lecture on finding the derivatives of functions and couldn't remember the difference between a product rule and a quotient rule. He'd probably end up asking his friend Chris, who was a whiz at math and science, to help him out during lunch.

After a couple of minutes, the stoplight turned green. Andy started to lift his foot from the brake, but the Buick in front of him didn't budge. Andy hesitated, then tapped his horn lightly. Nothing. A little louder this time, and the car finally moved. Andy had just enough time to make it through the light before it turned red.

"Fucking old people, man. They shouldn't be allowed to drive."

Andy glanced over at Jeff, who was sitting next to him in the passenger seat. His younger brother was slumped over in his seat, forehead pressed against the window, breathing clouds onto the glass with his warm sighs. His eyes were still puffy from sleep.

Andy grinned and looked back at the road. "Wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?" he asked.

Jeff ignored him and reached for the air vent to adjust the heater. "Can't you get this fixed already? It's always so cold in here."

Andy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure, no problem. I'll just pull the hundred bucks out of _your_ ass and pay for it that way."

Jeff sighed and settled back into the seat. "God, I was just asking. You don't have to be such an asshole about it."

"And you don't always have to be such a whiny brat about _everything_," Andy retorted.

Jeff made a face at him, but didn't say anything else.

A couple of minutes later, Andy pulled the Bronco into the student parking lot and cut the engine. He grabbed his gym bag from the back seat, along with his Calculus textbook and a couple of notebooks, and opened the driver's side door. It was cold as Antarctica outside, and immediately Andy felt a chill go down his spine, even though the inside of the vehicle was, admittedly, nearly as cold. Andy stuffed his hands into the pockets of his letter jacket and started walking towards the building. Jeff trailed closely behind, rubbing his swollen eyes with the back of his hand.

Inside, the hallways were crowded with students talking with friends and getting books from their lockers before they went to first period. As he walked, Andy kept his eyes open for the others. Actually, he kept them open for Allison. He didn't know what was going to happen when he saw her, either on his end or hers. He was nervous about seeing her, but he wasn't afraid. In fact, he was more nervous about what she was going to do than how he was going to react. She was so unpredictable, and when it came down to it, he really didn't know her very well. Maybe she would just pretend that she didn't know him and that detention had never happened. Just brush right past him like he was just another guy in the hall. He hoped that she wouldn't do that, but he knew that it was a distinct possibility and that he had to be ready for anything where Allison was concerned.

"I hate Mondays," Jeff muttered as he brushed past a group of girls huddled in a small circle outside of the girls' bathroom.

Andy sighed. "Yeah, me, too."

They'd just made it to the center staircase when someone called out, "Jeff!" Andy glanced up in time to see one of Jeff's buddies waving at him, trying to get his attention. Andy wasn't very familiar with Jeff's friends since he never brought them over to the house, but he did recognize the kid--a short, dark-haired guy wearing a black leather jacket and a pair of ripped jeans--as someone that Jeff hung out with a lot at school.

Jeff nodded in Andy's direction. "See you later."

Andy nodded, and Jeff went over to join his friend. The two of them slapped hands in greeting, then started off down the hall, already deep in conversation. Andy watched them until they disappeared into the crowd, fighting the urge to follow them.

"Hey."

Andy looked over to see that Brian was standing next to him, hands jammed into the pockets of his khaki pants. The expression on his face was slightly pinched, like he was expecting Andy to start yelling at him, or maybe to hit him. God, was he really that much of an asshole, or was Brian just being…Brian?

"Hey," Andy said casually. "What's up?"

Brian paused uncertainly, then let out a little breath that sounded a lot like relief. For some reason, Andy felt a little bit relieved, too. All of this nervousness and second-guessing was starting to wear him out. He wished it was Friday already so that he wouldn't have to keep wondering how everyone else was going to react to seeing him.

"Nothing, I just thought I would say hi," said Brian, pulling one hand out of his pocket. "How was your weekend?"

Andy shrugged. "It was okay. Didn't do much because of the rain. What about you?"

"Same," said Brian. "I just stayed in and watched TV with my sister."

Andy nodded, and the two of them lapsed into silence, uncertain of what to say next. Andy glanced over Brian's shoulder at the wall of lockers on the opposite side of the hallway. There was a boy standing at an open locker, watching Andy and Brian closely. He was a little taller than Andy, but a lot thinner, and he had jet black hair just long enough that it fell into his eyes when he bent forward. His clothes looked a little bit too big for him, like maybe they'd been passed down from a larger older brother. He was wearing a grey t-shirt, black trousers, and a pair of worn out, bright red sneakers. Andy could see that the skin around his left eye was slightly yellowish from a bruise that hadn't completely healed.

Larry Lester.

Andy swallowed deeply and looked back at Brian. "Do you, uh…how well do you know him?"

"Who?" Brian glanced over his shoulder to see who Andy was talking about. When Larry realized he'd been spotted, he turned back towards his locker and started taking out books.

"Oh, uh…" Brian looked back at Andy. "I don't know him very well. He's in the Latin Club with me, and I have a couple of classes with him, but that's about it." He shrugged. "He doesn't really talk to anyone that much."

Andy glanced back over at Larry, who was still rummaging around inside of his locker. "Did he ever talk to you about what happened?"

"What happened?" Brian asked. "You mean…"

Andy nodded.

Brian pursed his lips together nervously. "Um, not really. I mean, no, not to me. Maybe to someone else, but…" He smiled apologetically. "Like I said, he doesn't really talk to us very much."

Andy nodded quickly. "Yeah, that's okay. I was just wondering."

Brian opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by the warning bell, which told them that they had one minute to get to their first period class.

"Well, I guess I should go," Brian said hesitantly.

Andy nodded. "Yeah, me, too."

Brian adjusted his backpack strap and nodded. "I'll, uh…" He smiled, embarrassed. "Bye, Andy."

Andy nodded, and Brian turned to walk away. He'd only taken a few steps when suddenly Andy felt like there was something missing. "Hey, Brian?" he called out.

Brian stopped and turned around, eyebrows lifted expectantly. "Yeah?"

Andy offered him a hesitant smile. "I'll see you later."

Brian paused, and then his face broke into a wide grin that showed off his braces. "Yeah," he said. "I'll see you later."

* * *

Bender spent most of Monday morning on the bleachers high above the football field, chain smoking and trying to figure out how he was going to get his hands on 300 dollars by Friday. He and Ricky had talked about it extensively the night before, though they hadn't come up with any viable options. Ricky had all of 30 dollars to his name, and Bender had about 25, which meant that they still needed 250. And cash like that didn't just appear out of thin air.

Ricky hadn't been very helpful. He'd suggested everything from mowing lawns to cleaning houses, shutting up only when Bender suggested having a charity bake sale. That was the problem with Ricky; he was too nice, too good. He wasn't used to dealing with guys like Frank Durbin, who had no soul and would kill some poor idiot just to light a match off the bottom of his shoe. Guys like Ricky didn't need to get involved in shit like that, which is why Bender had told him not to worry about it and that he would make sure they got the money in time.

It was a good thing Ricky couldn't tell when he was lying.

By the time third period came around, Bender had gone through an entire pack of Marlboros, but he wasn't any closer to figuring out how he was going to get the money. Knowing that he wasn't going to get anywhere sitting by himself in he freezing cold, he tossed the empty red and white package over his shoulder and slumped down the bleacher steps, heading for the main building.

Mrs. Naslund's English class was one of the more tolerable classes on Bender's schedule and was therefore the class that he attended with the most regularity. Mrs. Naslund didn't assign pointless worksheets or homework assignments, but instead focused mainly on classroom discussion and student participation. The desks in the room were arranged in the shape of a horseshoe so that the students could see one another when they talked. Bender always sat in the seat right next to the door, against the wall.

When the bell rang, Mrs. Naslund initiated a discussion on Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath, and Bender leaned his chair back against the wall, already bored. He thought about carving another set of his initials onto the top of the desk, but when he went looking for his knife, he realized that it wasn't with him. Shit, he'd probably dropped it in a rain puddle, which meant that it was lying in a drainage tunnel somewhere. Great.

About halfway through the discussion, Bender felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention, and he looked up to see who was watching him. It was a guy sitting on the back row on the opposite side of the room. He had short, spiky blonde hair, and he looked like he weighed about 250 pounds. He was wearing a red long-sleeved shirt and stonewashed jeans with a pair of worn out red sneakers. He didn't look happy.

Bender offered the guy a friendly smirk, then leaned his chair back against the wall and tried to get some sleep.

As soon as the bell rang dismissing them to lunch, Bender jumped out of his seat and slipped out the classroom door. He was halfway down the hall when he felt someone come up from behind and push him into the wall of lockers to his left.

"I think you and I need to have a little talk."

Bender looked up to see the beefy blonde guy from his English class standing in front of him, jaw clenched in anger. Bender ignored the throbbing in his side where his hip had made contact with a combination dial.

"I can think of better ways of getting my attention," he said, making a show of adjusting the collar of his jacket.

The guy ignored the comment. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.

Bender opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by another guy, this one taller and thinner, with short dark hair and a troubled expression. Bender recognized him from Mrs. Naslund's class.

"What's going on, Steve?" the guy asked.

Steve, the blonde guy, glanced over his shoulder. "I'm just having a little chat, Mark. Nothing to worry about." He turned his attention back to Bender. "So, do you know who I am?"

Bender's eyes widened with mock surprise. "Ed McMahon? Have I won?"

"No, you asshole," Steve spat out. "I'm the guy you hit last week in the parking lot. You damaged my fender!"

Bender definitely remembered that. His friend Cody had let him borrow his car that day since he didn't have anywhere to be and Bender didn't want to walk to school in the rain. Cody hadn't been all that upset by the dented fender, especially when Bender pointed out that it complimented the dent on the bumper, thus adding an element of symmetry that the car had been previously lacking.

"You just drove off without doing anything!" Steve exclaimed, face red with anger.

"Yeah, that was bad judgment on my part," Bender remarked sadly.

Steve scoffed. "Whatever. You're paying for my fender. 150 bucks. I need it by this weekend."

Oh, Christ. "150 bucks?" Bender echoed. "You've got to be fucking kidding me! I'm not paying that!"

Steve stepped forward and grabbed Bender by the collar, pushing him up against the row of lockers again. "Listen," he whispered menacingly, his face just inches from Bender's. "Both of us know that if I wanted to, I could snap you in two, right here, right now. But that could get messy, and I would rather have my fender replaced. So, get me my money, or I'll reach down your throat and pull out your fucking spine." With that, he pushed Bender away and started walking down the hall.

Bender stood up straight and readjusted his collar. 150 bucks. Holy fuck, that had to be some kind of cosmic joke. If he added that to the 250 that he and Ricky had to get to Frank Durbin by Friday, then he had to get his hands on 400 dollars in four days. Four days. He was so screwed.

"I'd watch what you say to Steve."

Bender turned to see that the other guy, Mark, was still standing next to him, watching his buddy walk down the hall. He looked over at Bender, expression blank. "The guy's a loose cannon. Say or do the wrong thing, and he'll probably take a baseball bat to your windshield."

Bender glared at him. "I don't _have_ a windshield."

Mark shrugged. "Your head then. If I were you, I'd watch out. He's pretty unpredictable."

The guy's tone wasn't giving much away, and Bender couldn't tell if he was friends with the other guy or if he was just an irritatingly helpful, non-confrontational kind of guy. Either way, Bender didn't appreciate him butting into his business, and he sure as hell didn't appreciate the assumption that he couldn't take care of himself. As if Muscle Head was some kind of threat or something. Let him take a baseball bat to whatever the fuck he wanted…Bender would just jam a knife into his Adam's apple. Problem solved.

"Thanks for the advice," Bender said sarcastically, moving away. "But if _I _were _you_, I'd mind my own fucking business."

* * *

By the time his third period English class ended, Andy was hungry enough to eat his own hand. He'd almost done it, too, when Mrs. McMillan started in on comma rules and ending up spending twenty minutes discussing comma splices. The word splice reminded him of slice, and then all he could think about was pepperoni pizza…with extra sauce.

When he arrived at his usual table, the only person there was Kevin, one of the basketball players. He greeted Andy with a nod and swallowed a bite of his sandwich. "What's up?"

Andy shook his head and pulled out his lunch bag. "Nothing. Where's Chris?"

Kevin shrugged. "Haven't seen him. Why?"

Andy grabbed the first thing his hand landed on: a package of chocolate chip cookies. "I need him to help me figure out my Calculus homework," he said, ripping open the bag.

"Quotient rules?" Kevin asked, reaching for his orange juice.

Andy rolled his eyes. "How'd you guess?"

Before Kevin could answer, Warren dropped his backpack onto the bench on the other side of the table. "If you're looking for Chris, don't bother," he informed them.

"What?" Andy exclaimed, forcing a mouthful of cookie down his throat. "Why not?"

Warren sighed and took a seat. "Because he's not here today. He has a cold."

"What a pussy," said Kevin.

Warren nodded. "That's what I said. I need him to help me with my Calculus homework. I mean, what the hell is a--"

"Quotient rule?" asked Andy and Kevin at the exact same time.

Warren scoffed. "At least I'm not the only one."

Within a couple of minutes, the other guys had arrived, and everyone was eating and talking, catching up on what had happened over the weekend. Andy was halfway through his first sandwich when Mark arrived, tossing his red backpack under the table and sitting down next to Andy.

"Hey," he said tiredly.

Andy glanced over at him. "What's wrong with you?"

Mark sighed. "Nothing. I've just been dealing with assholes all day. It's like they're following me around or something."

Andy lifted an eyebrow. "Anyone I know?"

Mark glared at him. "Do you even have to ask?"

Andy nodded. "What did Steve do this time?"

Mark shook his head. "Nothing, just…he was just being a jerk, that's all." He picked up his lunch sack and opened it, pulling out a bag of small red cherry tomatoes.

"…would have seen it if he had _been there_!"

Andy glanced up at see that everyone at the table was watching him. He looked over at Kevin, who was grinning. "Where were you, man?" he asked.

Andy frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Kevin rolled his eyes. "Stubby's party. You missed out. Our friend Ronald--" He paused to punch his teammate, whose cheeks were red with embarrassment and anger, in the arm. "--put on quite a show for us, didn't he?"

Ronald glared at Kevin. "You're such a prick."

Andy smiled. "What happened?"

Kevin grinned at Ronald. "Gave everyone a little striptease. Kimberley Hollis was particularly appreciative, wasn't she, Ron?"

Ronald pushed Kevin away, knocking him into Mark.

Everyone started laughing except for Warren, who was still watching Andy. "So, why weren't you there?" he asked through a mouthful of potato chips. "I thought you were going."

Andy glanced over at Mark, who was watching Andy closely, waiting for his response. He knew that Mark wasn't satisfied with his excuse on Sunday when he'd called wondering why Andy hadn't picked him up like he was supposed to. The two of them had known one another for a long time, and Andy figured that Mark could probably tell when he was lying, or at least hiding something. The thing was, he wasn't hiding anything, at least not in the way that Mark was probably thinking. On Saturday and Sunday, Andy had spent all of his time at home, mostly because he didn't want to be around anyone, particularly his friends. It wasn't that he didn't like them anymore. It was just hard to explain what had happened on Saturday in the library, and he needed time to process it all. He figured that if he couldn't figure it out for himself, then the other guys sure as hell weren't going to understand. Not even Mark.

"I was just tired," Andy explained, looking back over at Warren.

Warren lifted an eyebrow. "Now who's being a pussy?"

Andy rolled his eyes and looked over at Mark, who had gone back to eating his tomatoes. "So, how was chemistry?" he asked, referring to Mark's least favorite class.

Mark sighed. "Fantastic," he replied sarcastically. "I have a take home test due on Wednesday, but Sarah said she's going to help me."

Andy grinned. "You never did tell me what happened between you two on Saturday."

"That's because nothing _did_ happen," Mark responded irritably. "I told you that."

"Oh, come on," said Andy. "You two must have at least talked on the ride home."

Mark glared at him, but Andy thought that he could see a smile in there somewhere. "We talked," he admitted.

"About?" Andy prodded, popping another cookie into his mouth.

Mark sighed, defeated. "Nothing too serious. Just about classes mostly. She's taking this advanced biology course at the community college so she'll get college credit, and…"

As he listened to Mark talk about how smart and talented and motivated Sarah was, Andy glanced around the cafeteria, looking for the others. He spotted Claire almost immediately. She was sitting at her usual table of friends, listening as one of the girls told some long, involved story that required extensive use of her hands. The story must have been very funny, because suddenly the entire table started laughing, Claire included. She didn't notice Andy watching her.

It took a little bit longer to find Brian's table since Andy had never really cared or thought about where the nerds sat. As it turned out, they sat against the back wall, right under the mural that the Art Club had painted the year before. There were five or six other people at his table, including a couple of girls, which shouldn't have surprised Andy, but it did.

He was trying to figure out which of the girls Brian was probably drooling over when he saw _her_. She was sitting right next to Brian, who was talking a mile a minute, waving a carrot stick in the air to illustrate a point. Her body was hidden by her dark grey parka, but her hair was pushed back out of her eyes with a dark red headband. He could see her mouth, curled up in a mischievous smile as she listened to Brian talk. She was right in the middle of everything, but somehow not part of it, or maybe it was just that his mind couldn't focus on anyone else but her.

Then suddenly she looked up, like maybe she could sense that he was watching her, and their eyes locked together. Andy felt his breath catch in his throat. Allison looked a little bit surprised, if her wide eyes were any indication. Her mouth dropped open slightly, but she closed it quickly, biting down in her lower lip to keep it closed. Andy couldn't tear his eyes away from her face.

"…so that maybe she can graduate in three years instead of four."

Andy blinked, looking back at Mark. "What?" he asked, disoriented.

Mark paused. "Have you heard anything I just said?" he asked flatly.

Andy sighed. "Yeah, of course," he lied.

Mark didn't say anything, just picked up his sandwich and looked away. Andy watched him for a moment, then glanced back over at Brian's table. Allison was still watching him, but as soon as she realized she'd been spotted, she looked down at the table, busying herself with her sandwich. Andy sighed and went back to his lunch.

* * *

Bender spent his lunch period the same way he'd spent his morning: on the bleachers, smoking. Except this time he wasn't smoking them one after the other, like he had earlier. In fact, he hardly even tasted the cigarettes this time, he was so distracted.

400 dollars. He needed 400 dollars by Friday. 150 to make sure some meathead didn't bash his head in with a baseball bat and 250 to make sure that Frank Durbin didn't cut his _and_ Ricky's throat with a switchblade. 400 dollars, 4 days, and 2 ways to die. Decisions, decisions.

Bender laughed, and a puff of cigarette smoke escaped from his throat. He was finding it hard to take any of it seriously after being confronted by that asshole in the hallway. It all seemed so absurd in his head, like it was happening to someone else, or maybe like it was some kind of fucked up dream. On Friday, he could be dead. Twice. Somehow, this didn't scare him the way it should have, and that was probably the scariest part of all.

Suddenly the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. Bender tossed his cigarette onto the bench below him and put it out with the tip of his boot. Then he made the long, familiar trek down the steps, through the parking lot, and through the double doors leading to the hallway outside of the cafeteria.

And there she was, right in the middle of everything, just like always. She was wearing a dark red sweater and a brown leather skirt, and she was carrying a matching red purse. She was talking with some friends, nodding along with something that one of the other girls was saying, her red curls swishing with the movement. She didn't seem to notice that he was there.

Bender ducked his head down slightly and walked around the group, not wanting to draw any attention to himself. Because for some reason, he was suddenly feeling very self conscious. Fuck! Was he kidding himself? What the fuck did he care what a bunch of rich chicks thought about him, huh? What the fuck did he even care what _one_ of them thought? He didn't, and he had to remember that.

"John!"

Bender stopped and turned to see that Claire was right on his heels, struggling to catch up to him. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and her lips were redder than he remembered them being. Fuck.

"I, uh…" She offered a nervous smile. "Hi."

Bender nodded in greeting.

Claire released a tiny breath. "How was your weekend?"

Bender shrugged. "Uneventful." He paused. "You?"

Claire shrugged. "The same, I guess. I did homework, mostly."

Bender lifted an eyebrow. "Sounds _thrilling_."

Claire smiled. "Yeah, it was."

The two of them stood there awkwardly for a moment before the warning bell rang, signaling that they had one minute to get to class. Claire looked down at her watch and sighed. "Well, I guess I'll see you later," she said disappointedly.

Bender nodded. "Yeah, maybe."

Claire stood there for a moment, studying him. It looked like she was trying to make a decision, or maybe get up the courage to say something. Before Bender could figure out which one it was, Claire leaned forward and kissed him.

Maybe it was because he wasn't expecting it--or maybe it was because it was _her_--but suddenly Bender felt like he was drowning. He'd felt that way all day, like he was fighting to keep his head above water, but somehow this was different. Somehow, he didn't want to fight it this time. He just wanted the wave to swallow him whole, to take him under and never bring him back up again.

But just as soon as the kiss began, it was over. Claire pulled away, taking in a sharp breath, like a diver resurfacing. Her eyes flickered up to meet his, and she bit down on her lip again. Without saying anything else, she smiled and walked away.

Bender didn't watch her leave. He wanted to, but he forced himself not to. Instead, he looked straight ahead, at the people walking past him--some of them gaping at him, some of them not--and that feeling of absurdity washed over him again, causing him to laugh out loud. Yeah, it was someone else's life alright.

But it was his goddamn dream.

**

* * *

A/N: Just as a warning, I may end up adjusting the rating for this story to 'M' for sexual content and dark themes. I haven't decided anything yet, which is why I haven't already changed it, but you might want to be aware of that if you come back looking for this story later. I would suggest adding me to your story or author alerts if you would like to read future chapters.**

Thank you for reading. Reviews are much appreciated.


	4. Chapter Three: Green Tuesday, part one

**A/N: **I mentioned last time that I might up the rating on this story to M. I have decided that I am going to do this, so when you come back to read chapter four, you'll need to adjust the ratings filter. Or just put my on author or story alerts. Either way.

**

* * *

**

Chapter Three: Green Tuesday, part one

* * *

John's boots crunched as he made his way across the icy field of grass, heading for the playground. The sun was peeking over the tops of the houses on the edge of the park, but it was still cold enough outside that the ice hadn't melted yet, and his warm breaths were still coming out in hazy clouds. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trench coat to keep them warm.

Jim was waiting for him on the swing set, smoking a cigarette as he rocked back and forth on one of the plastic swings. His bald head was covered in a black knit cap with the White Sox logo on the front, and his chin was dotted with day-old black stubble. As John approached, he jammed the cigarette between his lips and grabbed hold of the chains on either side, unfolding his long, gangly legs out from under him and rising to his feet.

"Morning," John greeted him.

"Yeah, it sure is, isn't it?" said Jim, rolling his eyes. He pulled the cigarette away from his mouth, and a little puff of smoke escaped through the gap. "Tell me again why this couldn't have waited until tonight?"

John glared at him. "I need it today. Do you have it?"

Jim nodded and flicked a piece of ash into the grass. "When are you going to be able to pay me back?" he asked, taking one final drag on the cigarette.

"Next week," John lied. "Three-fifty by next weekend."

Jim shook his head. "Only one seventy-five. I could only get you one ounce, not two."

John let out an angry breath. "Why the fuck not? I need two!"

"Well, I don't have two, alright?" said Jimmy, tossing his cigarette into the bright green grass, where it landed with an audible sizzle. "I only have one, and I can't afford to give you two off the cuff, not right now."

John clenched his jaw. "I need two."

Jim shrugged. "Well, I only have one. Take it or leave it."

John snorted. "Fine, give it to me."

Jim paused, probably trying to decide whether or not to hit him. Finally, he sighed and stuffed his hand into the right pocket of his black ski jacket, emerging with a small bag of weed. He held it out in front of him, and John snatched it out of his hand and stuffed it into his own pocket.

"You're welcome," Jim said sarcastically. "You're welcome for dragging my ass out of bed at fucking seven A.M. and walking half a mile in the goddamn cold just to bring this over, since you could wait until this evening like I asked."

John rolled his eyes. "Thanks," he muttered, "but I still need two."

Jim studied him closely for a moment. "Why do you need two?" he asked. "You need money or something?"

"None of your business," John snapped.

Jim didn't look away. "It's Durbin, isn't it? What is he gonna do, cut off your legs?" Pause. "Your head?"

"Fuck you."

"Must be the head. How much are you in for?"

John stuffed the bag of weed into his pocket and turned to walk away. "I'll have your money by next week."

"If you aren't dead by then," Jim quipped. "Look, I'll see what I can do about the other one, alright? Meet me at Harrison's tonight. If I have it, I'll bring it then."

John didn't say anything, just shoved his hands into his pockets and kept walking.

* * *

Andy walked through the doorway of Mr. Hanslik's first period physics class and collapsed into a chair on the second to last row, right next to the left wall. He was so fucking tired. He'd gotten about six hours of sleep the night before, and he really wasn't a six hours of sleep kind of guy. Eight was better, ten was optimal, and any more than that was…heaven.

He'd been sitting there for less than a minute when Claire walked in. She was wearing a pale green sweater and a pair of black trouser pants, and her hair was pulled back with a couple of tiny black clips. She scanned the room quickly, and her eyes settled on Andy. He offered her a short nod, and she smiled and walked over.

"Hi," she said, sitting down in the chair next to Andy's. "How are you?"

Andy yawned widely and wiped his eyes. "Fine. You?"

Claire smiled. "Not bad. Have you seen any of the others?"

Andy leaned back so that the front legs of his chair were a few inches off the ground, then stuffed his hands into the pockets of his letter jacket. "Yeah, I saw Brian yesterday. Talked to him for a minute." He thought back to lunch the day before, when he'd noticed Allison sitting at Brian's table, hair swept back with the headband, drowning in her black parka. "I guess that's it," he said finally.

Claire reached into her purse and pulled out a small tube of pink lip gloss. "I saw Brian, too. We're actually in the same English class, but I'd just never really paid attention to who sat behind me." She uncapped the lip gloss and applied a thin layer to her bottom lip, then pursed both lips together. "I think we're going to get together to study for the test we have next week."

Andy nodded and leaned back in his chair just a bit further. He glanced over his shoulder, where a few other students were sitting, chatting amongst themselves while they waited for Mr. Hanslik to arrive. There was one girl, however, that was sitting by herself on the back row. She had thick, straight blonde hair that fell past her shoulders in a messy curtain. She was wearing an olive green hoodie over a pair of jeans with rips at the knee, and her Converse sneakers looked like they'd seen far better days. She was sitting slouched over her desktop, eyes narrowed at Claire, who was rummaging around in her purse again, this time for an extra hair clip. Andy watched as the girl's expression shifted from mild curiosity to something harder, like anger or maybe jealousy.

Suddenly, the girl's eyes flickered over towards Andy, and she sat up straight in her seat. Andy frowned, and the girl clenched her jaw angrily. She turned away from him and flipped the green hood over her head, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. He could see her eyes shifting back and forth, as if she was trying not to look over at them.

"Do you think this quiz is going to be hard?" asked Claire, breaking into his thoughts.

Andy glanced over at her, lowering all four chair legs to the floor. "Quiz?" he echoed.

Claire nodded, smacking her lips together. "Over chapter eight." She looked up at him. "Circular Motion," she clarified.

Andy sighed. "Fuck."

* * *

When John left Jim at the park, he didn't head for the school like he was supposed to. Instead he went back home, where he had his scales and rolling papers and baggies, to divide up the ounce of weed into small, sellable pieces. If he played his cards right, he could get about $250 for it, maybe $275, and that would take care of almost all the money that Ricky owed Durbin. If Jim came through with the other ounce, Ricky would be completely covered, and John would be able to pay back the asshole with the dented fender. Of course, then he would still have to find another way to pay back Jim, but that money wasn't due until next week, and John decided that he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

He climbed in through the window, knowing that his father was probably either in the kitchen making coffee or in the back bedroom sleeping off the graveyard shift. His father worked two jobs, one just as shitty as the other, and John never remembered the old man's schedule. This became a problem on the days that John skipped school, since Mr. Bender wouldn't hesitate to kick his ass out the door if John made the mistake of making his presence known while his dad was still at home. It had only happened a couple of times, but the broken finger and the black eyes had convinced him that the window was the wisest choice.

John kept all of his supplies in the closet under a pile of dirty clothes, where he knew no one would want to look. He closed the door behind him, pulled everything out, and sat down on the small piece of carpet left available to him in the small space. He measured the gram bags first, then started rolling the joints. It took him a few minutes, but once he found his rhythm, he was able to finish them rather quickly. He stuffed half of the gram bags into a larger sandwich bag, then did the same with half of the joints. The other half of the stash he stored in a brown paper sack, which he decided to keep at the house in a small hideaway behind the baseboard, where his parents wouldn't find it. He wasn't going to sell it all in one day, and he didn't want to be carrying that much around, at least not at school.

He was still in the closet putting the rest of the baggies away when he heard someone crack open the door to his room. John froze immediately, still clutching the brown paper bag in one hand and the two plastic sandwich bags in the other. On the other side of the closet door, John heard someone step into the room--heavy boots sinking into thread-worn carpet--and he knew that his father was there.

John knew that his dad came into his room sometimes. It usually happened when John was listening to his music too loud or when he'd done something to make the old man angry. But he knew that he also did it when John was sleeping, because he'd woken up on more than one occasion to find his father going through his drawers, checking the pockets of his son's pants for money, or even drugs. If he found something interesting, he would pocket it, but not always. Sometimes he would put it back, though John was never entirely sure why. John could only figure that his father's visits served some other purpose, if only to satiate the elder Bender's need for control over every inch of his household.

But sometimes things did go missing, which was where John had to be careful. After the first time his father came in late at night, John started hiding his things better. He started sleeping with his wallet and pocketknife under his pillow, and he dug a hole behind a loose bit of baseboard to store anything too valuable to keep out in the open. His father apparently hadn't found out about the baseboard, because John hadn't yet discovered anything missing from that spot. He hoped he wouldn't ever find it.

Mr. Bender walked deeper into the room, and John leaned forward slowly, pressing his face against the crack in the door, right below the hinges. He had access to only a sliver of the scene, but it was enough. He watched his father kick at a pile of dirty shirts in the middle of the floor, muttering a string of curse words under his breath. Then he jerked open the top drawer of his son's dresser and picked up a roll of socks, turning them inside out to see if there was anything inside. When he didn't find anything, he replaced the socks and picked up another roll. He went through each of them, one by one, squeezing them or unfolding them. He did the same with each of the other three drawers, checking the pants pockets and turning a couple of John's t-shirts inside out. Finally, he stood up again and turned towards the door.

But he wasn't ready to leave. John hardly had time to let out a sigh of relief before his father had dropped to his knees again, right in front of the wall with the removable baseboard. He felt his blood freeze as his father peeled the molding away from the wall, and his breath caught in his throat when his father reached inside to see if there was anything worth taking. And there was, of course. The fifty bucks that he and Ricky had scrounged up on Sunday when they were trying to add up how much they'd need. John had insisted on taking it, mostly because he didn't trust anyone but himself to come up with the money, and he wanted to know exactly how much they had at any given time. Plus, Ricky was notorious for losing things, and John didn't trust Ricky not to lose the money. As it turned out, it wasn't Ricky he had to worry about.

John's father found the wad of cash wrapped in an old t-shirt at the bottom of the small space. John watched his face light up when he realized what he'd found, then watched him pocket the cash and stuff the t-shirt back into the hole. He snapped the baseboard back into place, then put a large hand on the wall to steady himself as he rose to his feet. He didn't even bother to close the door on the way out.

John stood there for a good five minutes after he was gone, taking slow, steady breaths to calm himself. His father knew about the baseboard. His father had taken the money. John glanced down at the bags in his hand, at the brown paper sack that he was supposed to keep at home for safekeeping. Not anymore it wasn't. Everything was coming with him.

John stuffed the bags into the bottom of his boots, then climbed out of the window and headed to school.

* * *

Andy walked out of Mr. Hanslik's physics class with numbers and equations bouncing around in his head, fighting for space. He didn't feel like he'd done too badly on his quiz, considering he hadn't even cracked open his textbook the night before. He'd been so busy trying to finish his essay for English that he hadn't even thought about any of his other classes. He still had Calculus homework to finish, which meant that he would be hitting up Chris for help at lunchtime, if he wasn't out sick again.

"Hey, stranger."

Andy looked up to see that Candice was leaning against his locker, obviously waiting for him. She was wearing a slim-fitting t-shirt with the school mascot in the upper left-hand corner, and her letter jacket was tied around her waist. She had her dark red hair pulled up into a ponytail like always, but a couple of strands had come undone and were pasted to her temples with dried sweat. Her gym bag was sitting on the floor at her feet.

Andy clenched his jaw. "What are you doing here?"

Candice lifted an eyebrow in mock surprise. "What, I can't even say hello?"

Andy glared at her. "I need to get into my locker."

Candice let out a little laugh and pushed off from the locker, stepping away from it so that he had access. Without looking back at her, Andy started turning the dial, trying to remember the combination, which he was having trouble remembering, for some reason.

"32-16-32."

Andy turned back to look at Candice, who was watching him from less than two feet away. She lifted an eyebrow. "It looked like you were having trouble remembering."

"I know the combination," he told her, turning away again. "It _is _my locker."

Candice didn't respond. Andy resisted the urge to look over his shoulder again, and instead focused on getting the combination right this time. When he finally managed to pop the door open, he switched out his books and grabbed the notebook he needed. Then he closed the door again and replaced the lock.

If he was hoping that she would be gone by the time he finished, then he would have been disappointed. He turned back around to see her standing beside him, gym bag slung over one shoulder, arms crossed over her chest determinedly.

"What do you want?" he asked irritably.

This time, it was Candice's turn to look irritated. "What does it look like?" she asked. "I wanted to say hi, alright? I wanted to see how you were doing."

"Fantastic," Andy responded sarcastically. "Can I go now?"

Candice shrugged, eyebrow cocked defiantly. "You don't need my permission."

Andy released an angry breath through his nostrils, but his feet didn't budge. They stood there for long moment, staring at one another, until Candice sighed and uncrossed her arms, letting them fall to her sides.

"Look, I just wanted to see you," she said, quieter this time. "I just wanted to see how you were doing." She paused. "How are you doing?"

"I've been better," said Andy. "And worse."

Candice nodded. "You look good. Tired, but good."

Andy clenched his jaw, but didn't respond.

Candice stepped forward so that they were standing less than a foot apart. "I was thinking maybe we could hang out sometime. Grab something to eat, play basketball…"

"What, so you can beat me?" asked Andy.

Candice smiled; a big, genuine smile that showed off all her teeth. "So, you remembered."

Andy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I guess that part's kind of hard to forget."

Candice reached down to tug the sleeves of her letter jacket into a tighter knot around her waist. "So, what do you say?"

Andy hesitated. "I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"I think you know why not."

Candice's expression didn't falter. "It doesn't have to be anything big," she insisted. "We'll just hang out as friends."

"We're not friends," said Andy, harsher than he'd intended.

Candice's dark brown eyes flickered, but to her credit she didn't look away. "Why not?"

"Because a friend is someone you can trust," Andy replied firmly.

Candice pursed her lips together. "I deserve that," she admitted.

Andy didn't say anything, just waited.

Candice reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "But I also deserve another chance, I think. I know you, and I know you wouldn't give up on someone for making one mistake."

"That's a big fucking mistake," he snapped.

Candice sighed, and her eyelids fluttered closed, then open again. "We've been friends for a long time, haven't we, Andy? We were friends before we started dating, and we can be friends now. There's too much there to just throw it all away."

Andy tried to think of something good to say to that, but couldn't come up with anything. Candice must have noticed his hesitation, because she took a tiny step forward, closing the distance between them.

"You know what I was thinking about the other day?" When he didn't answer, she went on. "You remember that night the basketball team beat Evanston Township and you took me out to celebrate?" She smiled at the memory. "When we bought that gallon of chocolate ice cream and ate it the whole thing, on the hood of my car, right in front of the grocery store?"

Andy did remember. He'd wanted to go in for another gallon, but Candice was so full that she was ready to throw up and she wouldn't let him. He nodded.

"And you remember that night after the Valentine's Day dance?" she whispered, stepping forward even closer. "In the back seat of your Bronco?"

Yes, he did remember. Oh, _god_, did he remember. And apparently his body did, too, because suddenly he was finding it hard to breathe normally. "Yeah," he whispered.

Candice smiled and let out a breath, and Andy got a whiff of the cinnamon candies she popped like breath mints. He remembered how it used to make him laugh that she kept more candy in her gym bag than she did water bottles or energy bars. He remembered how he liked that about her--first of all that she carried a gym bag, but also that she had a secret weakness. In his eyes, it made her seem more vulnerable, even though she probably would have hit him if he'd ever mentioned it.

Candice reached forward to take his hand, and suddenly Andy remembered holding Allison's hand in his, right after detention. So small and fragile, trembling just a little bit as they walked down the front steps toward their cars. He jerked his hand out of Candice's grip.

"I know what you're doing," he said angrily, "and it's not that easy."

Candice sighed. "I know it isn't. I just wanted--"

"And things are different now."

Candice paused. "Why?" she demanded.

"Because I'm--" He stopped, pursed his lips together angrily. Because what? Because he was dating someone else? He wasn't even sure if that was true or not. He hadn't even talked to Allison since Saturday afternoon, and he'd only seen her once since then. That wasn't dating. It wasn't even _almost _dating. "It's complicated," he said finally.

Candice let out a sharp chuckle. "When did _you _become such a girl?"

Andy scoffed angrily. "Forget it," he muttered, pushing past her.

Candice reached out to grab his arm, pulling him back. Before he realized what was happening, she was standing on her tiptoes, and her lips were pressed against the corner of his mouth. Nothing passionate or romantic, just a quick, firm kiss. He didn't even have time to react before she pulled back slightly so that their faces were a few inches apart.

"Whenever you figure out this complicated situation you're in, whenever you find it in your heart to forgive me…" She offered him a sad smile. "…let me know, okay? I'll be waiting." Then she turned and walked away.

Andy watched her leave, watched her red ponytail swish back and forth as she walked down the hall. When she disappeared around the corner, he let out a sharp breath and looked down at the floor.

"Fuck."

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for all of the great reviews so far. I really appreciate them. : ) Please let me know what you thought of this chapter. Thanks! 


End file.
